Just Vulnerable Instances
by Delillium
Summary: He doesn't experience pain or love, just a few vulnerable instances. Sherlock begins to think back and realizes what he's feeling for Molly Hooper is strange. Something he's never felt before. He wonders: When did he decide he couldn't or wouldn't love? And how will these distracting thoughts affect his current case? All main characters involved. Action, love, and Sherlock whump!
1. In The Window

**Just Vulnerable Instances**

* * *

He couldn't possibly feel pain, he never had _obviously_.

_Mental _pain he'd never felt, _physical_ of course, was a tricky one to deny.

There were vulnerable instances when he had to subdue to pain, yes, it wasn't as though he could shut every pain receptor in his body to an off, though that'd make for an interesting experiment and he'd take note of that, but for now, he was still just standing there.

He had never felt the sensation of a weird sort of knot in his stomach, like something was amiss, about a _person, _like he did at that moment. Sure, when his skull wasn't in it's spot, when his clothes, no matter how wrinkled or crammed, weren't in their organized drawer, he'd get that feeling. But he'd never gotten it over a _person_.

He was attempting to hail a taxi after having met up with John downtown when he just so happened to pass by this restaurant.

Perhaps twenty minutes prior, Lestrade had happened to be thrown a new case and in turn, knew how interestingly difficult it was. Sherlock was the only possible outcome, if he wanted to get this case done.

However, that afternoon, John had been in a rush to leave the flat and had picked up his phone, however, leaving, Sherlock's phone was where his phone usually was placed in the morning, and picked Sherlock's up as well, out of habit.

Thus granting him double phones, and once he realized it with a couple of texts from Mycroft asking about things he had no clue what were about, he realized his mistake and called Mrs. Hudson who relayed the message of John's ignorance, as Sherlock was call it.

He was about to just leave it be when Lestrade texted about a good case and an address. So he decided he come downtown, they could meet up, get the phone situation straightened out, and get in a taxi together to the address so he could do some map research on the location of the crime scene on his phone.

And just by a chance, he passed a restaurant named Julie's Julep.

It seemed like a some-what upscale restaurant judging by the women who obviously made themselves up in a more than decent manner, as Sherlock would describe it, and the men had tucked in button-ups and dress trousers on.

And so did Molly.

Sitting there at a window a couple away from where he had been standing, sitting across the table from another man who seemed fairly attractive compared to the examples on magazine covers.

But how attractive he was wasn't what irked him, even after he'd made the obvious deduction that he was an aspiring male model and for now, some sort of office worker, he wasn't affected, what affected him the most, dare he should admit this to even himself, was the fact that Molly hand't even shoved it in his face.

She hadn't even taunted him with the fact she was going on a date, even if he did turn out to be some money-grubbing asshole, she hadn't put up this whole front that she was desirable and his chances were slipping through his fingers.

Why hadn't she?

"Sherlock? Sherlock, four taxi cabs must've just passed by." John grumbled behind him as he stared curiously at the couple in the window.

Molly was smiling and laughing and the man across from her, though he only got to see snippets of his face here and there when he turned to different angles, was also noticeably laughing, and suddenly, just as John let out an aggravated sigh, he was reaching across the table with a single hand about to place it directly on Molly's.

"Sherlock, what're you-…" John squinted in the distance and then looked back to him, "…oh, is that Molly? Seems she's having dinner. Is that who you were staring at?"

"No." Sherlock replied finitely with suddenly closed lips. He snapped his attention to the taxi cabs as he lifted his arm in the air at one approaching, "I was just wondering how people can be so…dull. What fun is a restaurant?"

"You…have conversation? Conversations can be-"

"Moronic. Dull. Annoying." Sherlock listen quickly as the taxi pulled up the curb with a squeal and he opened the door and climbed in, as though ending the conversation right there on the street.

John climbed in, Sherlock's phone buzzing in his back pocket nosily, he pulled it from his pocket and stared down at the text message.

_'Are you coming?'-Lestrade_

Sherlock looked to John, "You didn't reply to Lestrade?"

John eyes widened slightly and then he opened his mouth, as though retracing his steps in his mind, "Must've slipped my mind, sorry."

Sherlock didn't reply, texting back a simple '_yes'_.


	2. Delete

**2**

* * *

Sherlock took one last scan over the scene and reviewed the evidence in his head.

Male, late thirties, truck driver by the state of his clothing- faded jeans, everywhere except the the back, that is. Flabby arse only contributed to the theory along with the wrinkly back side of his flannel shirt. Tattoos, beard, unkempt hair and a baseball cap finished this theory. What other sort of position allowed this state? He had keys on his belt loop, and gas station snack crumbs in his beard.

A tear drop tattoo on his cheek signified he'd killed someone. Who? He couldn't deduce that, but the state of his tan-lined wedding finger in the shape of ring and the red area around the tattoo suggested both had been recent. New tattoo, newly divorced.

No ring had been found on him. If he'd been widowed, a loving or faithful husband usually kept it on him somewhere.

So it was a budding theory in his mind that these could be significant clues.

He'd been killed by slitting his throat. This man was tough and burly, this method of murder was quick and effective. Killed from behind by a man of lesser strength.

However, the killer was obviously tall. His cut was high, not low as if a shorter person would've done it or too high as though a killer had dropped on him or was standing on something. He had to be silent and careful. He was standing.

The way the body fell in the middle of the room suggested he'd clambered through the window, into the small flat, killed him, performed his work and left just as he came.

So thin, but tall. Not very strong.

At this remark, Anderson commented that the killer must've resembled him.

_'Haha, Anderson. Genius.' _

After the initial kill, the killer didn't stop at just that, he set his work into motion. What he'd truly been there to do was make this man into a work of art- by cutting the top half of his skull open, crudely, Sherlock might add, and removed the meninges and brain. Replacing these organs with a large candle that had been lit for a short amount of time.

Possibly the amount of time it took for him to write the numbers _'24:29'_

The numbers were obviously significant, but that was for another time.

Sherlock smiled devilishly to himself, walking away from the crime scene as John stood over the body. He wasn't exactly assessing it anymore, but looking over the criminal's work. Even Sherlock, business aside, would admit it was more than likely one of the more gruesome scenes.

Lestrade was beside him, mentioning something as he pointed down towards the victim's face, but that was a mental note that Sherlock quickly deleted and waved away as unimportant, he'd seen everything he needed.

He took his phone out, fingering the plastic baggy in his coat pocket with his other hand which contained some scrapings from the crime scene, and quickly scrolled down his contacts list.

_'Molly Hooper' _

He clicked on it as half of his mouth begun to turn upwards in the slightest bit of mirth, silently hoping they were in the middle of laughing like a bunch of gits or walking in the moonlight and he'd interrupt with his demands for access to the lab that only _she _could provide appropriately.

He washed away the smirk and thoughts all at once.

_'Need access to lab if convenient. If inconvenient, I still need access. Will be there in ten.'-SH_

He put it away, knowing very well that Molly Hooper may mention she was in the middle of something, but then brush it off with something like, _'__…oh, but it's alright. It's fine. Really.' _

As if he cared.

_'Lab.'-SH _He sent quickly to John.

Perhaps he was looking over something he thought, with his doctor expertise, needed further looking into, and Sherlock wouldn't possibly scold him for that. Probably something Anderson, as per usual, over looked.

He jumped into the first cab he saw, and sailed off to Bart's, phone in hand just as Molly texted him back, he stared out the window for just a second longer, watching lights conjoin and blend, before looking down.

_'You always need things at the worst times. Lol. But it's alright. It's fine. Really! I might be a bit late__…in the middle of something.' _-MH

Sherlock squinted down at the text in scrutiny.

'something'

It wasn't _'something' _it was a _date_. Why wasn't she rubbing it in his face? Flaunting her new _'office romance' _or…or…

He closed his eyes, releasing a breath, pushing the phone back into his pocket. Why did he care? He didn't. But it certainly said something about her supposed new date.

He was someone she didn't want him to know about. So someone he'd met? He hadn't exactly been able to see his face close up, not to be able to pin-point it to any person. But obviously, if she wasn't yelling from the roof tops about him, then he was _someone_.

He swallowed.

Why waste his precious thoughts on something as frivolous?

Dull.

Delete.

He gave a content sort of sigh, looking back out the window with his mind practically clear, or at least, clear of Molly Hooper.

If he could _delete _Molly Hooper all together, he would.

* * *

Sherlock stood in the hall, looking out the window as he watched cars. Coming and going all around him, people were moving on to something.

_Something_.

And he was just standing there. Waiting for _Molly Hooper _to get through those blasted doors down the hall.

After another five, boringly long, minutes passed, Mallory Anne Hooper came through the doors, bustling through with a flattering Shiraz red dress. Not tight and suggestive like the previous Christmas party dress. It came just above the knee, fitting tightly just below her chest and from there fit loose.

Her black heels clicked against the tile and she walked, surprisingly, with skill.

She had a little black clutch on a gold chain on her shoulder and was quickly pulling out her lanyard from the bag.

"I had to find my keycard…that's what took me so long, be-because I always lose track of it around my flat..and..and…" She murmured with a nervous laugh, finally, "…sorry to keep you waiting."

Sherlock didn't reply as she flashed the key card and the door clicked open, she pushed it open, holding it with an outstretched hand towards Sherlock.

Sherlock with a quick glance at her face, noticed her minimal but natural make up. Light pink lips and warm cheek bones, her hair was down, framing her petite features in big thick waves.

It wouldn't be obvious if he questioned her about all of this get-up.

_'She looks__…**ridiculous**_**.**'

"Your very dressed up to just be around your flat."

"I didn't say I was hanging around my flat…I was…out."

_'She's most certainly trying to conceal his identity.' _

He smirked.

"Oh, another date with Jim. Seems to be going well with you two." He drawled sarcastically with a steadfast eye in her direction, watching her reaction.

She looked away, biting her lip.

Nervous.

"No, I wasn't..I wasn't with Jim." She paused, "What did you need to do in the lab? Another..um..case then?"

Changing the subject.

Sherlock looked to her momentarily, debating whether to continue his questioning or call her out for being so secretive, but decided to let it rest for the moment.

He flashed back to his ride to Bart's in the first place- hadn't he deleted the scene at the restaurant? He could've sworn he had.

_'Delete. Delete. Delete.'_

"You should work on your stuttering, Molly, it's getting worse. I need the lab to test some scrapings. Fingernail, candle wax, food crumbs. I'll be needing a cuppa coffee, bl-"

"Black with two sugars. I know."

"Thank you, I'll be upstairs."

* * *

Cherlock stared down at the finger nail scraping for what felt like, the hundredth time, but he couldn't let a single thought run across his brain without it stopping, mid-step, to be distracted by Molly's hesitance and secrecy.

The man in the restaurant, holding her hand. They were laughing, giggling like school children. He thought she'd been wearing a pink blush, but it turned out, she'd just been blushing. So maybe he'd complimented her just before his joke?

Wait, hadn't he deleted that scene? How could he possibly be remebering-…_'Delete! Delete! Delete!' _

"Here's your cup of coffee…Anything, um, interesting?"

"The candle is made of a home-made wax material, within the twenty mile area of the murder, there were five candle shops. Three of which ordered their candles from a factory, and the other two were owned by a brother and a sister. Each ran the two shops together. Called Proverb Candles. Religious obv-…"

He stopped mid-sentence.

The numbers on the wall.

"Thought of something, did you?" Molly asked quietly.

"There were numbers. On the wall. Numbers. 24:29."

"24:29…well…-Oh! And then the candle shop is called _Proverb _candles. So, Proverbs 24:29. Those are about revenge, I believe."

Sherlock looked up to Molly quickly, cell phone in one hand about to research the proverbs himself, "Revenge?"

"Oh, uh-" She stuttered, taken by surprise. For once, she was able to help.

_'Don't just stand there! Talk! Intelligent words, Molly.'_ She thought quickly, opening her mouth, "Y-Yes! Revenge. Or, about _not _taking revenge at least. I think it goes..Do not say I will do to them as they did to me. I will repay him for his works."

Sherlock's eyes went from her mouth to the petri dish, to his hands, all at once thinking this through.

"It means, don't get revenge. An eye for an eye. God will do it for us."

"Yes, I understand it. I don't understand what the _murderer _is trying to tell us."

"Maybe…don't kill him for killing the victim? God will handle him?"

"No, the quote relates to the victim. He used _his _blood to write those words. He could have used anything to write it. Instead, he used _his _blood."

"Then…maybe he thinks he's God's messenger?"

Sherlock looked up to her, turning back to petri dish and looking at the last scraping he'd been examining. Fingernails.

The door suddenly opened, and in came a drowsy looking John Watson, coffee in hand and raised eyebrows, "Find anything then?"

"Criminal has a God complex, the numbers related to a bible quote, to not exact revenge, God will take care of it. Therefore, the killer believe's he's God or someone closer to him than anyone else. Could be a religious figure."

"Or maybe a Sacred Heart student gone mad…" Molly laughed nervously.

John smirked and Sherlock had to stop himself from following suit. If John had made the joke, he might've laughed. But this was Molly Hooper.

And Molly Hooper, shouldn't make jokes.

"Fingernail scrapings suggest nothing out of the ordinary. I believe I've seen all I need." Sherlock murmured, stepping away from the obvious mess he'd made and looked to Molly expectantly, "Thank you Molly, good night."

"Oh..um…Good night, Sherlock. Good night, John."

Sherlock pushed through the door, John, with one hand on the door and his face turned towards her, gave a soft smile, "Thank you, Molly, and have a nice night. Sorry if…we interrupted something?"

"Oh, um, no. It's fine. A little…date. But…he understood."

"Oh, God, sorry."

"Oh, right. Right. Thanks..um…"

"Right, okay. Well, you look very nice, Molly. And, I hope you get back together with him tonight and finish what you started. Don't let us ruin your whole life, as much as Sherlock likes to do that with people…"

Molly smiled a little to herself, reaching to touch a lock of hair as he turned to leave with a friendly smile still touching his eyes, when she cleared her throat, "John?"

He turned back around, grabbing the door before it closed with slow ease, "Hm?"

"Well, do you think…do you think that Sherlock thought I looked…well…nice? In this I mean? He didn't seem to like the Christmas outfit…and well, I was just curious, because you're his flatmate and you know him better than I do, probably, and as far as I ever seen, he doesn't like much of anything…I was just wondering. Just wondering, is all…"

"Oh, I..well, why didn't you ask him yourself?"

She shrugged a little, with a soft laugh dying on her lips, "I don't know…I get a little…_nervous _around him."

"Ah, well, he _does _have that effect on people."

She nodded with an embarrassed smile, the slightest splash of red tinging her cheeks.

"I think he'd approve." John answered finally, though in actuality, he had no idea.

John lived with him for perhaps close to a year now, and he wasn't any closer to understanding his taste in much of anything. Women and fashion were at a knowledge base of ultimately zero in accordance with Sherlock.

But who would _ever _know what made Sherlock Holmes turn on? Or smile? Or give the thumbs up?

Maybe even Sherlock didn't know.

John turned around with a final a nod to her, his smile having vanished by the time he'd caught the door, and rushed down the hall, hoping Sherlock hadn't decided to leave him behind yet again.

In relief, he found Sherlock waiting loyally outside the very doors of the hospital, checking his watch with obvious aggravation.

"She said something to you. About her date."

"No, not really. Said we interrupted her, but we didn't share details." John looked at him vacantly for a second as Sherlock stepped out to the curb, waving a hand for a taxi and John's eyebrows scrunched together slowly, looking down at the fleet of cars rushing by him in the frosty air, sending a whirlwind up his zipped-up jumper.

John opened his mouth, and then closed it, pressing his lips together as he stared in intense concentration for another second before turning towards Sherlock who'd just successfully hailed a cab, finally.

"Do you…_care _if Molly was on a date?"

Sherlock turned to him with confusion in his eyes, "I _know _she was on a date."

"No, I know that you…_know_. I'm asking if..you.._care_ that she was on a date?"

"I don't follow."

"Well, do you…have an _opinion_ about her being on a date."

"He's another self worshipping, low paid,-"

"I'm not asking for a _deduction, _Sherlock…you know what…never mind. Just…never mind. I don't suppose you would understand what I mean- and that answers my question, I guess."

Sherlock's eyes rested on John's profile for another second before clambering into the stopped taxi, wondering in silence, if he'd missed something in the question.

But he supposed it didn't matter.

Just as much as it didn't matter that Molly Hooper had went on a date with a suspicious character that _obviously _she didn't want him-….

_'DELETE. DELETE. DELETE!'_

* * *

**It'll be getting good next chapter- what not with the oncoming Sherlock whump, and a small realization and such****…****  
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**Sorry for coming out with this chapter so late- didn't realize anyone liked this story until I bothered to check the favorite count! :)**

**Reviews are wonderful and are ALWAYS appreciated- in fact, their SUPREMELY appreciated. **

**THANKS!**


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